As a teen, I cringed every winter at my mom’s faded coat with mismatched buttons. I hated walking beside her—wanting a stylish mom, not one who looked “poor.” I begged for a new one; she always said, “Next year.”
Decades later, cleaning her closet, I found an envelope tucked in the pocket, filled with saved money. In her handwriting: “For a new coat—one day.” She’d been scrimping, prioritizing our family over herself. That shabby coat suddenly symbolized quiet sacrifice.
Memories rushed back: Mom skipping meals, working overtime, never complaining—ensuring I had new shoes, warm gloves, school supplies. I’d mistaken her worn garment for lack of pride; it was proof of deep love I was too young to see.
Folding the coat, I felt aching gratitude. I wished I could rewind and walk proudly beside her, arm in arm.
That day, I donated a new winter coat in her honor, hoping another mom feels warmth and dignity. I kept hers, buttons and all—a reminder that love is often stitched silently into what someone wears far beyond its time.
Now, every winter’s chill prompts a whisper: “Thank you, Mom. Next year came for me because you surrendered so many of yours.”
